


He's Gone

by apollojolras



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:31:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollojolras/pseuds/apollojolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Gone

After Sherlock and John had been reunited, John was shocked to learn that Moriarty was, in fact, alive as well, the bastard. He and Sherlock had abandoned their lives in 221B - in London too, for that matter - and had been hunting down Moriarty ever since. The intricate web of the man's power stretched across cities and continents and around the world, and he and Sherlock had been moving around for a bloody long time.  _7.4 months, John, I've told you already_ Sherlock had said.  _That's still a bloody fucking awful long time,_ he'd snapped back at him.

* * *

They had been chasing the literal hundreds of men and women working under the criminal mastermind's name during that time, and had finally,  _finally_ stumbled upon a lead. 

"Ooh,  _clever_ Sherlock, finally caught up to me!"

John looked up at the sound of the man's laughter, startled, to actually see the bastard himself, smiling at the pair from across the warehouse. None of the trio moved. Moriarty and Sherlock simply stared at one another, one's face blank and one's face alive with a wicked smirk. 

Before today, John would have sworn on his father's grave that Moriarty was nothing but a psychopathinc killer, nothing but an insane man who reveled in destroying lives and making himself rich, nothing but a man who belonged behind bars - or better yet - dead.

"Did you think you could actually catch me off guard? I'm so... _dissappointed._ " he sing-songed, leering at John and smoothing his hands into his pockets.

"Well, if that's all," he sighed, "I really must be going. Dear Sebastian is waiting for me."

  
_Sebastian?_ John thought.  _Does he mean Sebastian Moran?_

Sherlock didn't take the bait, his features very still and composed, still staring at Moriarty. John could tell that he was exhausted though, and he could something hidden behind Sherlock's eyes.

_What is it? Regret? Guilt? Over that sniper? Sebastian?_

Finally Sherlock spoke, his voice soft and almost - gentle.

"James..." He paused, as if he was unsure how to continue. 

The grin slid off of Moriarty's face, his expression darkening. John swallowed, tasting apprejension heavy on his tongue. He looked at Sherlock, but the man's face was blank again. 

"Don't call me that,  _Sherlock_." he spat in reply. 

John was puzzled by Sherlock's behaviour.  _Calling Moriarty by his name? As if he was a friend?_

Sherlock braced himself, and caught Moriarty's eye, just as the man turned to escape this confrontation from the two detectives. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Moran is dead."

* * *

Moriarty froze, so still that John thought that maybe he had stopped breathing. He stared at Sherlock, unblinking, unmoving, unbelieving. After what seemed like forever, he slowly tilted his head to the side. John shivered at the hiss that escaped him.

"You're lying."

John frowned. It was, if fact, true that the sniper had been killed - accidentally - but Moriarty seemed to...care. He was emotional about his fallen employee. Surely if he felt this way about his other minions he would have retaliated when some had been unfourtunately killed.  _Odd._ Sherlock's soft voice pulled him  form his thoughts.

"I'm sorry."

"Shut up." His voice was low, dangerous.

"Sebastian is dead."

"I said  _shut up_! SHUT THE  **FUCK** UP!!"

He turned, slowly, quietly, deadly, staring at Sherlock. John didn't want to breathe; the room felt cold, and everything was too slow, like he was dreaming. Sherlock was telling the truth, and Moriarty knew it.  _I guess he...cared about him._

_  
_Moriarty's hand pressed to his mouth, his teeth no doubt biting holes into his lip. His hand slipped down to touch something hidden underneath his suit, tightening around whatever it was in a desperate, choking, white-knuckled rip. John blinked, almost surprised to recognize what he was doing. His hand found its way to his own throat, missing the warm metal of his dog tags under his shirt. They were in Sherlock's voilin case. He looked up when Moriarty stumbled to the concrete floor, still squeezing his own neck. He looked upset, in pain, like he had lost the most precious thing to him. _Why is Moriarty wearing someone else's tags?_

_  
_Sherlock reached into his jacket then, pulling something from one of the numerous hidden pockets. He stared at the object his hand for a few moments, which John eventually recognized as a silver ring. _What the hell?_ Sherlock didn't wear rings, or any other jewelry for that matter, and it certainly didn't belong to John. He looked back at the psychopath still crumpled on the ground, who was staring hard at the floor, blnking too fast, and pulling at his hair with hands. John caught a flash of silver reflecting off the lights that hung from the ceiling on one of Moriarty's fingers. Suddenly it all changed, he caghut up to where Sherlock was, he saw, he connected, he observed, he  _understood_. The details clicked together in his head. Moriarty had not only cared about this man, this Moran, but it was now painfully clear to John that he must feel something much more thas a simple fondness or affection for his late employee. John tasted guilt: heavy, sharp, and bitter.

* * *

Before today, John would have sworn on his father's grave that Moriarty was nothing but a psychopathinc killer, nothing but an insane man who reveled in destroying lives and making himself rich, nothing but a man who belonged behind bars - or better yet - dead. He was incapable of feeling sympathy, or compassion, or remorse, or pain, or love. 

Sherlock tossed the ring towards Moriarty, watching him violently flinch when it struck the ground, the sound of metal bouncing off of concrete echoing loudly in John's ears. Moriarty slowly reached out towards the band, a small sob escaping his throat when he picked it up. He briefly pressed it to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut and blinking away the moisture in them. He murmered something to himself under his breath in a lanuage John had never heard before. The ring clinked against its twin in his palm, and he tore his eyes away to look up at the pair of detectives.

"He's gone."

**Author's Note:**

> He says "Beannacht mo leannán".


End file.
